


Affirmative Defenses

by MachaSWicket



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: Even if all the facts alleged are true, defendant may present a legal justification for the her actions that will remove or reduce her culpability. Veronica and Logan discuss theory versus practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affirmative Defenses

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: to katelinnea for slogging through this little thing that went through a bunch of iterations before it made any semblance of sense.

“Hey, Veronica?”

Veronica looked up from the salad makings scattered on the countertop before her, curious what had prompted that combination of amusement and surprise from Logan. And maybe a little hopeful, since that tone of voice was often the precursor to fun, sexy times.

Like when she’d donned a _really_ short skirt, a clingy, sparkly red tank top, and some multi-colored hair streaks for a case, and he said her name _like that_ and she hadn’t even made it to the door. Ahhh, memories.

Logan strolled into the living room, holding -- dammit.

“Oh,” she said, deflating.

He lifted his eyebrows as he crossed the large living room and placed that damn wooden box on the raised breakfast bar. “Yeah,” he said, indicating the box with a flourish and a bemused smirk. 

“Did I not mention that?” Veronica said, paying sudden and fastidious attention to her food preparation, even though tearing lettuce into reasonably sized pieces hardly required such concentration.

“No,” Logan answered as he opened the lid and pulled out her little Smith & Wesson. “Bit of an oversight?” he suggested, sarcasm and a little bit of hurt in his tone.

Guilt hit, and she paused in the salad prep to reach for his hand, touch the back of his knuckles in apology. She really should have mentioned, but even though her psychology degree had helped her to be able to _name_ her coping mechanisms, it didn’t magically turn her into someone who _didn’t_ carefully avoid things she wasn’t ready to tackle.

“My dad got it for me,” Veronica explained, recalling in vivid detail her initial aversion to the gun. Since then, she and Smitty -- she found naming her gun helped her to normalize it, kind of -- had come to some sort of truce: Veronica would go to the range on occasion to keep her skills, well, passable, and Smitty would spend most of her time cheerfully tucked away in that wooden box.

Out of sight, sort of out of mind. Because: avoidance.

“Okay.” Logan slid onto the barstool, watching her continue to prep the salad. “But my thing is more -- we should probably _both_ know about unsecured firearms in our place.”

She flushed, keeping her eyes on the salad fixings. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” It still threw her off, sometimes, Logan’s reasonable, sensible maturity. He didn’t speak for a moment, and she chanced a look at him. “Really.”

He nodded. “More importantly, we should get you a lockbox for this.” He handled the gun confidently, checking first to make sure it was unloaded before testing its heft. He aimed it toward the living room wall, closing one eye to test the sights.

She realized she was standing stock still, torn lettuce in her hand, staring at him. Considering how much scary psychological weight guns still held for Veronica, it was strange, the thrill of arousal she felt watching him. “Oh, yeah?” she managed.

Logan shifted his attention from sighting down the barrel to her, and the twitch of his lips let her know her reaction hadn’t gone unnoticed. He set her small, black revolver down on the counter with a small clank. “Yeah,” he answered, pushing himself off the barstool.

She watched him disappear around the corner, and could hear him rummaging around in the hall closet, but couldn’t imagine what he was looking for. He reappeared, carrying a metal box more than twice the size of Smitty’s home. “Oh,” she said. Because he’d offered to show her his service weapon when they were moving in, and she’d demurred, but she’d seen the box. This box.

Logan placed it on the counter, and her stomach flip-flopped. “Something more like this,” he said, keying in the code he’d told her. Once the lock clicked free, he opened the lid and removed a shiny black semi-automatic. 

His Beretta. Veronica felt goosebumps raise up along her arms just at the sight. It was stupid -- she knew about the gun, she’d seen the gun safe, but actually _seeing_ it was something... worse, somehow. Logan racked the slide to clear the chamber and laid the empty cartridge beside Smitty. Her pulse sped up, a weird, unsettling combination of lust and fear. 

Logan, who was watching her for a reaction, read her effortlessly as always. His expression shifted, and he carefully laid his gun beside hers before circling the breakfast bar to her side. “Hey,” he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

Veronica leaned into him, hating that familiar pit of dread in her stomach. Guns like that -- those big, scary, shiny ones -- they brought her right back to the Neptune Grand rooftop, to the Fitzpatrick’s bar. Moments of visceral panic and fear. She could still smell the stale cigarette smoke from that dingy bar, could still picture Cassidy’s vicious sneer.

She was a little intimidated by Smitty, cute nickname and all. But those large guns, the semi-automatic ones that could hold 16, 17, 18, bullets worth of damage and death -- they were downright terrifying.

Her pulse pounding in her ears, Veronica pressed her hands on top of his. Logan was the only one who could ever really understand her reactions -- he’d lived through the rooftop with her, and he’d seen her scared, furious tears after getting her out of the Fitzpatrick’s bar.

“It’s okay,” he murmured into her hair. “Let’s go to the range and you can handle it.”

New associations, her psychology training told her. Or maybe, more accurately, aversion therapy. She didn’t want to shoot his gun, didn’t want to touch it, even. But Logan’s instincts were right, as they almost always were these days. “Okay,” she agreed, turning in his embrace to wrap her arms around his ribcage. 

& & &

Veronica pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine. And hesitated.

Beside her, Logan reached for the door handle. “Cowboy up, Mars.”

She snorted. “Would you stop saying that?”

“Yeah,” he shot back, leaning down to peer back into the car, “because taking my smoking hot girlfriend to the firing range to play with her six-shooter _isn’t_ the most appropriate time for that joke.”

She pushed her door open and smirked at him over the roof of her Audi. “You’re not a cowboy, Logan, and I’m not a cowgirl.” She lifted a finger in warning, recognizing the sparkle of humor before the inevitable innuendo materialized. “And keep your reverse cowgirl jokes to yourself.”

He smirked, waiting at the trunk for her to unlock it. “Spoilsport.”

She popped the trunk, then nudged him with her hip. “Only in public.” Veronica stepped back to let him handle the weaponry. “And that phrase went stale a decade ago.”

Logan pulled the small duffel bag from the trunk and slung it over one shoulder. “How do you know?” he challenged.

Veronica forced herself to focus on their conversation, and not the guns he was carrying. “Because it had something to do with baseball, and I haven’t been forced to watch hours on end of baseball since I left for Stanford.” 

She took it as a sign of the progress they’d made that neither of them flinched anymore when talking about their complicated past. Well, at least not the less traumatic parts. And Veronica was more than happy to let sleeping memories of rapists and murderers lie.

Logan shrugged, reaching for the door to the range. “I wouldn’t complain if you wanted to wear leather chaps.”

She laughed as she stepped inside, and many of the men in the small storefront turned to evaluate her. There were a few women, too, and almost everyone in the shop wore a variation of jeans, a pro-gun-rights slogan t-shirt, and a holstered gun. Logan stepped closer, his fingers brushing her shoulder blade as he spoke to the room at large. “Gentlemen.”

Veronica smirked and moved forward, letting her gaze slide over the familiar gun shop. he storefront was separated from the larger firing range out back by a thick concrete wall. There was some country-type rock playing, but not loudly enough to drown out the deep, dull _bangs_ from the indoor firing range beyond the back door. 

The shop was laid out like a jewelry store, with waist-high glass display cases angling in and out to provide the most possible space to show off the merchandise. And even though she’d been there at least a dozen times over the past nine months, her brain still expected emeralds and rubies and diamonds, not black and silver handguns of every possible shape and size.

“Can I help you?” An older man -- white, scruffy, a bit oversized -- moved toward them. No nametag, but he wore an old Creedence Clearwater Revival t-shirt and a large gun on his hip.

Veronica opened her mouth to answer, but Logan said, “We’re here to shoot, but I’m curious what you’d recommend for my girlfriend.” She shifted slightly, poking his thigh to register her irritation with his little games. She knew Logan was hoping the guy would show her a bedazzled pink handgun, just to see how she’d react.

But CCR guy simply let his appraising look wash over her, then beckoned them towards the display case along the back wall. “Something on the small side to fit in your hand right,” he said, “but with enough power.” He tapped his finger against the glass, indicating three grey and black semiautomatics that were on the smaller side. “Maybe a P229 or a small Glock -- a G42 or maybe a G19.”

Logan tilted his head, just a bit. “Not a .22?”

CCR guy shrugged. “Sure, but you’ll need to fire more than once to equal the stopping power of a Sig.” 

Veronica shuddered a bit at the casual way he referred to _stopping power_ , because what he meant was whether a bullet could drop a human. Which was kind of the reason guns freaked her out in the first place. She felt Logan’s hand low against the small of her back.

“The Sig is nice,” Logan said, leaning a little closer to the case.

“Babe,” Veronica said, turning to Logan, who flushed slightly at the pet name, instantly suspicious, “you know I only want to shoot _your_ gun.”

He choked a laugh, and even CCR guy maybe looked a little amused when he held out the clipboard with release forms. “There’s an open lane if you want it.”

“Definitely.” Veronica scanned through the familiar language quickly, then signed and handed it back along with her license.

Logan followed suit, adding his credit card to the mix. “Box of 9 millimeter rounds, too, please?”

“Protection?” CCR guy asked.

Veronica could _see_ the jokes Logan was trying really hard not to make, so she beamed at CCR guy. “Every time.”

When CCR guy turned to grab two pairs of safety glasses and two pairs of ear protection, Logan leaned in and lowered his voice. “You’re going to hell.”

& & &

Pausing just before the door to the firing range, Veronica tugged the big, red, goofy ear protectors a little tighter. She had her own ear plugs in, too, the squishable, expanding kind, but the sound of weapons being fired was still ridiculously loud. 

They entered the small anteroom, which always amused Veronica -- because it’s not like they were heading into an operating theatre, or exiting a space shuttle. Instead, the range was a large, dank room, fairly dark, with a waist-high wall separating the shooting area from the gravel-strewn firing range. Shooters were assigned to lanes, like some kind of demented bowling alley, and were separated from each other by floor-to-ceiling partitions papered with faded safety reminders.

She glanced up at Logan, who nodded, and then pushed the door open. She shivered -- a combination of cool air and the sense memory triggered by the smell of cordite. Veronica and Logan moved to their assigned lane, maybe three-quarters of the way down the row, beside a man and two kids taking turns with a small-bore rifle. 

Even with double ear protection, the sound was deafening. Her first few times here, it had actually been a little disorienting; if she were being honest, it still set her nerves jangling.

Veronica put the case of bullets on the small ledge inside their lane, then stepped back. Logan, who looked decidedly silly with his big green ear protectors and yellow-tinted glasses, moved closer and began to unpack the duffel. He disassembled both guns, leaving them open and harmless on the ledge, before turning to her. “What do you want to shoot first?”

It’s a good thing they were practiced in non-verbal communication, because Logan’s voice -- when she could hear it at all -- sounded muffled and very far away. Mostly, she could hear someone shooting a large caliber weapon that she would swear were actual cannon bursts, and the strange, squelching noise of her ear protection, which sounded like it was coming from inside her own head.

So she simply moved in front of him and attached a traditional target with concentric red and black circles -- no shadowy figures in hoodies or turbans for them -- and sent it about 20 yards away. She loaded Smitty efficiently and snapped the barrel into place.

An inhale, then a slow exhale, and Veronica stepped into position -- legs shoulder-width apart, left foot a half-step in front of the right, shoulders square to the target. She lifted Smitty, right hand on the stock, left hand supporting below.

On her next exhale, she pulled the trigger. 

The first shot always startled her, the kickback jarring her wrists. Veronica resettled, forced her muscles to relax, and shot again. And again, more confidently now. She fired twice more, then lowered Smitty, opening the barrel to clear out the casings with fingers that were almost not even shaking.

Logan’s warm hand drifted up her back, soothing pressure against her tense muscles. She gave him a smile and gestured for him to take his turn.

He dropped a kiss to her forehead and stepped to the counter, loading the cartridge for his Beretta. Pausing, he waggled his eyebrows at her before turning downrange and lifting the gun. He handled it with practiced ease, and it struck Veronica anew just how different her grown-up man was from her high school and college boyfriend. The boy who’d brazenly walked into a mob bar with an unloaded weapon, holding it one-handed because that’s how the action heroes did it, had grown into this responsible, Navy-trained marksman. Disconcerting.

Logan fired once, shifted minutely and fired again, then three times in rapid succession. He was used to the kick, keeping the gun level and trained on the target.

Veronica realized her hands were shaking a bit and stepped back, one hand on the lane partition to steady herself. The gun scared her -- more than she was expecting, if she were being honest. But Logan didn’t, and the combination was... really very confusing.

When he emptied the cartridge, he disassembled the gun and placed it on the ledge, then stepped closer to her with a smile. “Your turn.” 

Veronica rolled her shoulders to chase away some of the tension and stepped forward. The empty cartridge was cool against her fingers when she picked it up to load it, and she had to quell an irrational urge to hurl it away from her. She told herself not to be silly. It was just metal, just an object, with no inherent bad qualities. _Guns don’t kill people, people kill people_ , she thought, and then laughed, because a gun had damn well killed Gia. She could still smell the sharp scent of blood when she let herself think about it.

Logan stepped up behind her, his chest hard against her back, and brought his hands to hers. He’d shown her the basics of the M9 at home, but touched the safety to remind her.

Veronica nodded, inserted the clip and racked the slide. Her hands were much smaller than Logan’s, and everything that looked so smooth and easy and, yes, occasionally kind of badass in the movies? It felt awkward and difficult for her, and took concentration. 

She lifted the Beretta carefully, held it out in front of her with straight arms, and the range shifted. The feel of this gun, the weight of it, the shape of it -- goddamnit, she would not think about the rooftop. She would not remember the sick, burning, desperate rage, the way her hands shook and her knees shook and the gun shook in her hands. 

She would not remember his voice, his sneer, the way he’d _reveled_ in breaking her.

Hands landed on Veronica’s waist and she flinched. Logan backed off immediately, but Veronica stayed there, frozen, staring blankly where the target should be. She noted absently that her arms were starting to shake a little, knew she should put the gun down, but she couldn’t actually make herself do anything about it. 

Logan was beside her, then, his fingers light on her shoulder, slipping down to her elbow, her wrist, and she nodded, her movements awkward and sharp. He eased the gun from her hands, and it was like that fucking night again. Her eyes burned with the memory. 

She repressed a shudder, tried to steady her breathing, which was so loud and harsh in her head it almost drowned out the sounds of guns all around her. She didn’t even need to look at Logan to picture the look on his face. 

Instead, Veronica bent at the waist, hands on her thighs, hanging on the skinny edge of dizziness and breathing way too fast. And then Logan was on his knees beside her, one hand rubbing her back. She knew he was probably talking to her, trying to calm her down, but that guy’s fucking shotgun was too loud, and she had to get out of there.

She managed to lift her head, slow her breathing a bit, and gestured to the door. He looked -- God, he looked awful. Terrified, even. “I’m okay,” she said, and she was relieved he couldn’t hear the high, thready sound of her voice. She kissed his forehead and straightened up, still a bit lightheaded, and then started for the door.

Veronica walked through the anteroom, dropped the ear and eye protectors on the counter inside the shop, and picked up speed, practically bursting out the door into the bright sunshine. She wasn’t crying, but her lungs were still being very stubborn. She could feel her pulse pounding in her head, and turned her face up into the sun, eyes closed. 

She leaned against her car and waited, and sure enough, Logan came tearing out the door within a minute, the duffel bag half-closed and banging against his leg, their licenses clutched in his other hand. He only slowed when he locked eyes with her. He let out a breath and continued to the car, dropping the bag near the front tire before he wrapped her in a big, comforting hug. “Veronica.”

She squeezed his waist, nodded a bit against his chest. “Sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed now. It’d been more than ten years, she should be _over_ this by now.

“Don’t you apologize,” he said, fingers clutching her closer. “I shouldn’t have pushed, Veronica. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t push, and none of that is your fault,” she said, feeling drained, needing a gallon of water or maybe a good, long nap. “Let’s go home.”

& & &

When they walked back into the condo, Veronica headed straight into the bedroom to change, leaving Logan to deal with the duffel bag and its deadly contents. The lingering smell of cordite was probably psychological, but she changed anyway, pulling on yoga pants and one of Logan’s oldest, softest t-shirts. 

She emerged into the living room to find Logan sitting out on the balcony, facing the distant shoreline, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He had a glass of wine in his hand, and Veronica noticed another beside the bottle on the kitchen countertop. She recognized that he was giving her space to process, letting her decide whether to join him or brood alone. Because he was secure enough now to trust that she’d always come back, no matter how long she needed to think things through.

Most days, Veronica and Logan just existed in their lives, in their relationship, no major soul-searching required. But when she stood back and evaluated how well they were managing overall -- it left her breathless. Such a contrast to the upheaval of their younger selves’ attempts to handle their problems.

Veronica grabbed the wine -- the glass and the bottle -- and joined him on the balcony, letting the late afternoon sun warm her. He glanced over, warm welcoming brown eyes and a soft smile, but didn’t speak. 

“Thanks,” she offered, setting the bottle down on the small table between the cushioned chairs, before curling into the empty seat. Sipping the wine slowly, she set her gaze out onto the horizon, let the border where blue met blue go blurry and unfocused as they sat in companionable silence.

Logan’s easy sprawl and calm manner was proof enough that he wouldn’t push or pester or cajole. He simply drank his wine, his eyes following the soaring paths of seagulls. It still amazed her, sometimes, how _still_ he could be, her grown-up Logan.

Eventually, she said, “I understand the principle.” He smiled at the sound of her voice, at her opening gambit, but waited her out. She shifted, pulling her legs up, half-turning toward him. “I fully support the principle, actually.” 

The slight furrow in his brow asked for clarification. 

“Justification,” Veronica answered slowly. “In certain situations, using deadly force to protect others or to protect yourself is justified.” She grinned, recalling long, late nights studying for her CrimLaw final, rattling off elements of crimes, elements of affirmative defenses. “It’s well-settled in common law,” she added, a flawless imitation of her CrimLaw prof's imperious tone, knowing he wouldn’t get the reference and not particularly caring.

Logan nodded, the movement catching her attention. He looked over at her, holding her gaze. “I support it, too. I’d kill to protect you.”

Her fingers tightened on her glass, and she had no idea how to answer that. That wasn’t the kind of pledge she ever wanted. It wasn't the kind of promise she wanted him to ever have to keep.

He seemed to have expected her reaction, because he smiled and nodded almost to himself, before adding, “You hate that that’s true. I don’t say that lightly, and I’m absolutely serious.”

“I know you are,” she answered, because she _did_ know he meant it. How to process the implications -- that was the part that bothered her. “That doesn’t make it okay,” she added absently.

Logan’s lips pressed together, and he turned back to the horizon, taking another sip of wine.

She sighed, frustrated with herself for hurting him. “I just mean -- it’s a huge thing, taking a life. And I don’t think I could do it.”

Logan didn’t answer.

“Or maybe,” she mused, “it’s that I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I ever did.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and made a small noise of frustration.

“What?”

Glancing at her, he shook his head, struggling with what to say. “If you killed someone who was threatening your father’s life, you might struggle with it, but you wouldn’t have been _wrong_ to do it. You wouldn’t regret him being alive.” 

Veronica bit back a surge of anger at him for his hypothetical, for the reminder of that fucking roof, however oblique and unintentional. “Of course not,” she answered flatly, “but I would regret killing to accomplish it.”

She used to obsess over that terrible half hour, used to wonder what she would’ve done if she’d had the gun before Cassidy pressed send to activate the bomb. Would she have killed Cassidy? Would she have convinced herself that he was bluffing, that she was wrong about him? 

If she’d been holding the gun the moment he pressed send, the moment her world exploded a mile up in the sky (she’d thought), would she have shot him in retaliation? In vengeance?

Veronica made herself look at Logan, made herself push the hopeless hypotheticals away. “There are other ways,” she insisted. “Non-lethal options. A taser, or shooting someone in the arm, or--”

“No!” Logan interrupted, anger and fear making his voice waver. He exhaled, calming himself before he continued, “No, Veronica. Seriously. Hollywood is bullshit -- getting shot doesn’t stop people in their tracks, or make them go flying backwards. Hell, it would barely even slow down a big guy hopped up on adrenaline or rage or _drugs_ \--”

“Logan--”

“If you ever have to point a gun at someone,” he continued talking over her protests, “you’d better be willing and able to shoot. If you’re in enough danger that you need to pull a weapon and aim it at someone, you shoot to stop the threat. Period.”

She thought about Gia, about being unarmed and trapped in a fucking cabinet when Cobb came to finish what he'd started. But a gun wouldn’t have done any good for Gia that night, and Veronica had managed well enough without one.

She ignored the goose bumps on her arms, taking another sip of wine to buy time. She recognized that he was scared of his own hypothetical, remembered how desperately he’d yanked her closer when he found her in the sheriff’s department interview room. But violent confrontations -- they were never anything she had any intention of pursuing. Unfortunately, her father was right. Sometimes their job caused them to wade a little deeper than they meant to; if you look under enough rocks, you’re not always going to like what you find -- and sometimes you’ll find danger. 

“You sound like my dad,” she murmured.

Logan’s grin was dark. “Maybe he and I should go bowling sometime.”

She ignored that. “I’m not saying it’s _wrong_ for you to kill in defense of yourself or others.”

“Magnanimous,” he remarked, with the barest hint of venom in his tone. “Considering my job description.” 

Veronica didn’t often let herself consider the scarier parts of his job. In fact, she had grown rather adept at _avoiding_ thoughts of carrier battle groups, and the fact that he deployed for months at a time on a giant, slow-moving target surrounded by warships, so that he could fly armed planes into dangerous places. Mostly, she shied away from these topics because of the physical danger to Logan, but the idea of him engaging an enemy, killing an enemy -- that was a different kind of scary. 

She studied him -- the suggestion of a smirk on his lips, the familiar intensity of his eyes as he studied her right back -- and let herself wonder whether he’d been in any gun battles, however unlikely. Let herself wonder if he’d ever fired the missiles on his plane.

Let herself wonder if he’d killed.

But she didn’t ask, and she knew from his steady gaze that he was waiting to see whether she would. He chose to maintain his silence, and she made herself accept it.

This was his life, his career. He loved it, and she loved him. And she never wanted him to doubt that. “I told you,” she said, quiet but certain. “I agree with the premise. I agree with the theory.” 

Logan nodded slowly, a bit of the tension in his frame easing. “So in _theory_ you would kill to protect me from a lethal threat, but in _practice_ \--”

“Please don’t,” she interrupted, throat tight and eyes burning. The fact pattern was too awful to entertain -- her dad or Logan, those were the nightmare scenarios. Or Wallace. Mac. She never wanted any part of playing God to determine who lives or dies. Worst of all was the underlying hurt in his voice, like he thought she just didn’t _love him enough_ to kill for him.

“There are different kinds of justice, Veronica,” Logan said, and he sounded tired, maybe a little frustrated.

“Logan, please -- listen to me.” She shifted again, put down her wine and faced him completely. She paused, took a steadying breath. Because she hated talking about this, hated that her day was suddenly submerged in this. “You know me. You knew I was making a mistake on the roof of the Grand.” 

“I’m not talking about Beaver,” Logan answered quickly, an echo of that terrible, scared expression from the gun range reappearing. “I’m--”

“Please?”

His jaw snapped shut and he waved her on with his free hand. “By all means.”

She looked down, watched her fingers twisting together in her lap, and tried to figure out how to say this. “You didn’t want me to kill Cassidy because I’m not a killer.” She was proud that she didn’t stumble over his name, didn’t flinch. “You’re the one who recognized it when I thought my dad--” It was still too hard to even say the words aloud. She waved hand. “When I was too wrung out to think clearly.”

“Veronica, he wasn’t a threat,” Logan lifted his hand, a plea to let him finish. “At _that_ moment, unarmed, he wasn’t a threat. That’s why I begged you to give me the gun, because I _knew_ you would hate yourself if you hurt him or killed him when he was unarmed. If it was before the plane…” Logan trailed off, shrugging.

She hated this. Hated _what ifs_ about that night. If she’d figured it out sooner, Mac would’ve been heartbroken but not traumatized. Six people would still be alive, and Woody Goodman would be in prison, labeled a pedophile and at the mercy of prison yard justice.

And some small, tiny part of her wished she’d never had to hear Cassidy confirming that he’d raped her, implying he was _proud_ of it. Her hands were freezing, and she tucked them beneath her thighs. The unknown was fucking awful, but she’d already figured out _who_ ; no matter what Cassidy said before his nosedive, she would never know the rest.

She shivered despite the heat, despite the sun, knowing she’d dredged up too much today -- she would have nightmares tonight for sure. 

“Veronica?”

She shook off that unproductive train of thought and reached for her wine glass with a trembling hand. But Logan waited until she looked at him to continue. With much more care than necessary, she set her glass down again and met his gaze.

“Believe me,” he said, “I’m _not_ advocating that you go around shooting people, and neither is your dad.”

Frustrated, she crossed her arms, trying to figure out a way to get her point across. “I love you, Logan.”

“I--” He stopped, blinked. “Love you, too,” he finished, his tone softer. He tilted his head in question.

“I respect your job, you know I do,” she added, willing him to listen, to hear what she was actually saying. “I’m just telling you how I would react to killing someone. If _I_ killed someone. I’m not passing judgment on anyone else.”

“Okay,” he answered, his tone hesitant, clearly still struggling to put the pieces together.

“You were right, then,” she said. “I would have hated myself. But I’d hate myself today, now, too. Even if it was an armed person. Even if there was a gun to your head.” He flinched, and she reached for him, leaning precariously over the arm of her chair so she could touch his wrist. He tangled his fingers in hers. “I would kill to save you,” she said quietly, holding his gaze, wishing he didn’t need this kind of reassurance. “I would, Logan.”

He swallowed hard, nodded, but didn’t interrupt.

“And I would thank God every day that you were still with me,” she continued carefully, ignoring the way her heartbeat was skittering and jumping with all of this terrible honesty. “And that has nothing to do with the fact that I would _regret_ having had to take a life. Even a terrible, awful person’s life. Even to save you.”

Logan stood suddenly, put his glass down and pulled her up. He wrapped his arms around her, leaned his cheek against her head, and she let herself melt into him. “I think I understand,” he murmured. 

“Good,” she said, squeezing his ribs a bit tighter to emphasize her point. 

“But--” She stiffened in his arms, and he actually laughed. “Please? Let me say my piece before you get pissed at me?” 

She leaned back enough to look him in the eye, studying his face. “Okay.”

“I understand your point of view, Veronica, I really do. But I’d much rather have you working through your guilt over killing someone than wracked with grief for Wallace or Mac or your dad.” His eyes were dark and sad when he added, “And I’d rather take you to a million grief counselors than even entertain the possibility that you--” He choked, tried again, “that you’d--” He shook his head, lips pressed together, and she leaned up and kissed him.

He couldn’t handle the hypothetical of her death either. What a pair they made. It was crazy that they’d had so much terrible shit happen that a conversation about justifiable homicide seemed necessary.

“I understand what you mean,” she said, rubbing small comforting circles in his back. 

“Good,” he managed. “I love you, and I need you to protect yourself because,” he shrugged, “because I need you.”

She still hated it, hated the idea of being armed, of having life-or-death weaponry in her (metaphorical) back pocket. But she supposed he and her father had reasonable points that -- in _certain_ situations -- it was only prudent to be able to counter any sort of violent attack with a gun instead of _just_ her rapier wit.

Veronica pressed closer to him, then leaned back enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe next weekend we can try that again.” She shrugged one shoulder. “The gun range, I mean.”

His brown eyes clouded. “Veronica, you don’t need to--”

“I know.” She tried to figure out a way to say it, a way to explain so he’d understand. “I don’t want to have all of these… bad associations with your gun.” She closed her eyes as soon as the words left her mouth, because Logan found innuendo irresistible, and he knew her aversion to heavy conversations, so his response was inevitable. Veronica held up one hand, but he was already smirking. “Let me rephrase.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Logan’s hands slid down to her ass, pulling her hips up against his. “I am in _firm_ agreement with your desires respecting my _gun_.”

“Logan.” She rolled her eyes at him, but she was amused despite herself. He had that damnable effect on her. “You’re impossible,” she admonished, but the effect was probably ruined by the grin she couldn’t contain.

He shrugged, careless and smug. “You love it.”

“Your insatiable sex drive, or your ability to make any combination of words into a double entendre?”

“Mmmm, both,” he decided, as he began to tug at the hem of her t-shirt. “I mean,” he continued, taking small steps toward the chaise on the other end of the balcony, “why wait until next weekend--” he released her to drop onto the chaise, then reached for her hands-- “when we have all afternoon to improve your relationship with my gun?”

END


End file.
